What’s Beneath The Church?
I write random tables as a warm-up every day. You can suggest a prompt here.
Deep beneath the vaults you find… (1d11)
- Footprints that run circles in the dust. They shift and change, evidence that someone – many someones – move around down here regularly, but nobody ever sees or hears them.
- A long row of dead priests, sealed into the walls behind ancient brick. The state of the mortar tells you they weren’t all dead were they were buried in the masonry of the church.
- A slithering, slobbering mound of bones and flesh that oozes and creeps. The priest has been making sacrifices to placate it for years – goats, dogs, crows, even the occasional penitent worshipper who trusted the man with their sins.
- A ritual chamber, bare stone and blood-soaked earth, candles and runes and broken sticks of chalk. The stone of the foundations is soot-black and baked from heat.
- A broken church bell wrapped tight in chains and strips of thick leather. The air around it sings softly to itself, resonating in harmony with a dampened frequency you’re not sure if you hear or imagine.
- Tunnels, endless tunnels, claustrophobic walls of crushing rock and trickling dirt. They run for miles beneath the local village, a labyrinth of unclear purpose.
- The shed skins of the local priest, a man who has served his flock far longer than is natural.
- A body made of parchment and sealing wax. Fragile breaths rattle in its chest and it flinches and squeals away from naked flames.
- An inversion of the church above, a vertiginous pit whose stained glass windows stare onto bare rock. All the idols and images are twisted reflections of their counterparts above-ground, and the cackling priest would rather draw your blood than feed you the blood of the lamb.
- A deep excavation sealed under thick glass. What little light there is shows the ruins of an even older church that once stood on this site. Huge clay pots line one wall, each sealed with a disc of wax a foot thick.
- A low wooden door, far thicker than normal and reinforced with sturdy strips of iron. Beyond it is a small chamber carved into the rock. The walls are covered with words painted in dried blood and etched into the earth, a manic Revelation that foretells endless misery.
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I write random tables as a warm-up every day. You can suggest a prompt here.